


Friends at First

by Vivienne



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Friendship/Love, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-23
Packaged: 2017-12-05 15:43:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/724989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vivienne/pseuds/Vivienne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock gets back, he can't deny that things have changed between him and John. Their friendship begins to take an unexpected turn as they succumb to a series of firsts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Call

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jupitereyed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jupitereyed/gifts).



###  **Chapter One: The First Call**

John was shaking after his first ever phone call with Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock’s brother had left him alone after the funeral and had always spoken with John in person before that so the phone call came as a surprise. Not quite as surprising, though, as the news that John’s best friend was not, in fact, dead. Sherlock was coming home. It was all over and Mycroft, in an unusual display of friendship, wanted to warn John that Sherlock would be arriving at 221B in a few hours. He took the time to explain Sherlock's reasoning and how Jim Moriarty had a web of people infiltrating everything from MI5 to Royal Mail and how he'd threatened everyone Sherlock was close to. He explained everything except _how_ Sherlock had done it, saying only "He'll prefer to tell you that himself; you remember how he is". And John did remember how Sherlock would get a thrill from explaining, even the most basic, ideas to him, but he couldn't bring himself to wait around to hear it.

He had to leave. John moved out of 221B one hour and twenty-six minutes after Mycroft’s call. He had packed a suitcase with enough clothes for a week and called into Mrs. Hudson on his way out to let her know he’d collect the rest of his things in a few days. Mycroft had already told her all about Sherlock’s return, and although she seemed shaken and asked him to reconsider, John couldn’t bring himself to see Sherlock. He extricated himself as quickly as possible to avoid still being there when Sherlock got back.  
He hailed a cab outside _Speedy’s_ and got taken to a hotel on the other side of London. He used the hour stuck in traffic to make some calls of his own. He phoned the clinic and told them he was ill and that he wouldn’t be back for a week. He phoned Harry to explain and immediately regretted it when she launched into a detailed sob story, never giving him the chance to talk about Sherlock. He phoned his old therapist and booked an appointment.

When the cab pulled up at the hotel, he paid and made to get out. He exit was awkward so he stretched and made for the hotel door. He made it halfway across the lobby before realising that his limp was back. His bloody leg that didn’t have a single thing wrong with it was acting up. The only outward sign of his PTSD came back, not with his friend’s death, but with his return.

John was, as yet, unable to contemplate the state his mind was in or the different emotions he was feeling, but the fact that his limp was back spoke volumes about the effect this was having on him. He slept.

Two days later, he sat on the edge of the hotel bed with its well-used springs and itchy sheets, his laptop sitting closed beside him. He knew he should write about how he was feeling. He should try to form coherent sentences and commit them to ink. Lord, he’d done nothing but write since Sherlock’s death, but now all of the words had left him. He glanced hatefully at the cane propped up beside the bed. He’d had to get a cab to the general hospital to get one. He wasn’t ready to risk running into anyone he knew at the clinic or St. Bart’s.

Three years. He had spent three years mourning the loss of the greatest man he’d ever met. The man who had brought meaning into his life, who made him think and see things differently, the man who had given him excitement, shared in their triumphs. Yes, of course he was bloody infuriating, but getting to see him work and help him, even in small ways, made it all worth it. And he had been gone for three years.

There wasn’t a day went by in that three years that John hadn’t thought about Sherlock. It was impossible not to be reminded of him while living at 221B; Sherlock was ingrained into the walls in the three bullet holes he’d left, in the gash his knife had left in the mantelpiece, in the stubborn stain on the kitchen floor where he’d spilled God knows what. John’s therapist had recommended distancing himself from these memories by moving out, but John couldn’t bring himself to do that. He knew that he’d remember Sherlock no matter where he lived; doing something as insignificant as making a cup of tea sparked a memory of Sherlock. There were still mornings when John would accidentally make two cups before realising there was nobody there to drink the other.

At first, John hadn’t wanted to believe it. He spent the first six months poring through newspapers, searching the internet and learning how to hack police records to find any trace of the brilliant man. He tried to convince himself that Sherlock had tricked them all. He finally realised Sherlock wasn’t coming back when he came home to find that Mrs. Hudson had boxed up all of Sherlock’s things and put them into the empty 221A. “You can go through them when you’re ready, dear,” she had said, with a pat on the hand. John drank a whole bottle of scotch that night. The boxes were still in 221A.

The next six months had been spent in therapy and writing down every feeling he had. He had typed out every vitriolic, heart-wrenching thought, every prayer that he’d said for Sherlock, every dream he had about his best friend. It wasn’t for his blog this time; he merely composed a mountain of text documents saved to a folder on his desktop. At the end of six months, he was compelled to move into Sherlock’s old room due to a burst radiator pipe in his, leading to an inhospitably damp, cold room that Mrs. Hudson didn’t have the funds to fix. That night was the first night John had slept through without a nightmare that woke him screaming. The next day he rang Mary and asked if she knew if there were any jobs going. 

A week later, John had secured a position in The Doyle Clinic, which specialised in the treatment of sports-related injuries; a position which would have originally bored him to tears, but which now was sedate and secure; two things which Sherlock had given him and now removed from his life. There was never any deaths to deal with, no potentially triggering mental illnesses, no reminders of his life in Afghanistan. It was perfect.

Over the next two years, John had settled into a comfortable, if monotonous, routine. He’d get up in the morning, force himself to have breakfast, get dressed and go to work. He’d have lunch at his desk; never having anyone to meet, come home in the evening, write for a few hours and try to muster the energy to cook dinner, but getting take-away more often than would be strictly healthy. He would have put on a lot of weight if it hadn’t been for the weekends.  
John had first gone to the rock climbing and abseiling centre at the suggestion of a patient who was enthusiastic about the physical as well as the social benefits (he went to get fit and got injured because of the flirting) and, at the prospect of another miserable weekend spent missing Sherlock, he decided he’d go. In the last year, John had become extremely proficient and had taken some additional classes in parkour; giving them up after realising it was probably left to a younger generation. He liked the safety that harnesses and helmets brought.

He’d made friends at the centre, but they were the casual “How’s your sister after the baby arrived?” friends, not the “I’m tragically lonely, can we make plans?” friends that John desperately wanted. And now the only friend that John had ever needed was back from the bloody dead and he was crippled, both literally and metaphorically. He’d tried to process the barrage of emotions coursing through him, but gave up on the third day after Mycroft’s call after the migraine he’d suppressed for 48 hours finally hit him. It was day five now and the headache had receded to a dull ache in his temples.

He had no idea what he was doing in this hotel. Was he waiting? What for? The limp to go away again? The pain and confusion that was stifling him to fade? The fear that he was dreaming and would wake up and Sherlock would be dead again to dissipate? Or was he waiting for Sherlock to come and find him? Did he want to talk to him? Could he face the man he’d thought dead? He didn’t know what to say or do. He pushed the unanswered questions out of his mind and settled for getting into bed and trying to go to sleep. The nightmares that had plagued him in the first year of Sherlock’s absence had become an infrequent occurrence after that first night in Sherlock’s room, but since his return, John had dreamt of Sherlock stepping of the roof every night. He was exhausted. He pulled off the clothes he’d put on that morning; a futile exercise since he never left the hotel room, put his laptop on the bedside locker and slipped under the covers, hoping that sleep would claim him. It did. He was asleep within ten minutes.


	2. The First Night

###  **Chapter Two: The First Night**

A pounding on the door awoke him. He rolled off the bed, still half asleep. The impact with the floor cleared the fog from his mind as he realised that he was in his hotel room, it was dark out and the banging which had infiltrated his sleep, was knocking at the door. He stood up and flicked on the bedside lamp. A glance at his phone informed him it was 3am so that eliminated the possibility of hotel staff coming to his room. Nobody knew he was here, which meant there could only be one person knocking at the door.

“Okay Sherlock,” he croaked out, “I’m coming.” He pulled on a t-shirt and limped to the door, not bothering with his cane for such a short distance. He twisted the handle of the door, allowing it to swing in. 

“John, let me in,” Sherlock practically growled from the hallway, “This running away is ridiculous.” He, however, made no move to enter the room, clearly waiting for John’s permission. That was new. John tilted his head back to look at the imposing man. He could see nothing of his face in the limited light being emitted from the small lamp beside the bed. He nodded his head once abruptly and made his way shakily to the bed, perching on the edge of it. Sherlock followed him in and closed the door

“Turn on the main light, will you?” John asked, his voice shaking almost imperceptibly, though of course bloody Sherlock would be able to tell. He was going to have to retrain himself to hide the small stuff now that he'd be living with the world's only consulting detective again. That errant thought was the only thing that John needed to realise that there was no possible way Sherlock would be living in 221B without John there too. He recognised that his staying in a hotel would never have accomplished anything; he wasn't leaving Sherlock. He was just, as Sherlock had already deduced, running away. 

“John?” Sherlock asked tentatively, turning on the light, but remaining closer to the door than to John. 

“Hello Sherlock,” John replied, the tremor in his voice gone, “I missed you.” He winced slightly as he heard how insignificant those three banal words sounded.

“I had to-”

“Yes, yes – Moriarty’s net or web or whatever. I know all about that; Mycroft filled me in.” John didn’t want to listen to Sherlock explaining his absence so earnestly. That wasn’t what he needed to hear. Not now.

“I didn’t think it would take-”

“Three years? I’m sure you didn’t, but you’d have done it regardless and you know that as well as I.” Sherlock really was hopeless at human interaction. Sherlock nodded in agreement, though he looked somewhat chagrined.

“I missed you too," Sherlock conceded at last. John looked up into those blue eyes, surrounded with more lines than he remembered and exhaled on what sounded dangerously like a gasp on recognising the sincerity etched on Sherlock's face. He pushed himself to his feet and, casting any pretence at anger aside, threw his arms around Sherlock. 

“You're an idiot. You know that? Who fakes their own death?”

Sherlock responded by returning the hug and replying “I’m sorry.” John leaned into the embrace, inhaling the smell that was just Sherlock. He noted the addition of tobacco smoke to that smell; Sherlock had evidently taken up smoking once more while he'd been in hiding. John would have to fix that. They remained like that for a good twenty minutes, John noticing Sherlock’s heartbeat slowing as he relaxed and Sherlock taking in the slight loosening of John’s grip as he realised that Sherlock wasn’t leaving again.

“Are you coming home?” Sherlock eventually asked, breaking the silence. John pulled back and looked up at him. Sherlock looked tired and older. The last three years hadn't been kind to him. Gone was the tailored suit he'd preferred in the past, replaced with tight jeans that had seen better days, judging from the hole in the knee. Tatty canvas shoes adorned his feet. He was wearing his trademark coat and blue scarf; the same coat and scarf he'd been wearing when John saw him hurl himself off a building. The coat now bore the wear and tear of an additional three years, resembling something one would consign to a bin, not fit to give to charity. Remarkably, the scarf had fared well apart from an unusual burn mark on the right hand side.

John considered the question for less than a second. He'd already decided that he'd return to Baker Street, but he thought about how cold it was outside and how tired Sherlock looked and how drained he felt. “Yes, but I’m bloody exhausted and I don't fancy trying to scare up a taxi at three in the morning. Can we just stay here tonight?” John answered, indicating the bed just behind them.

Sherlock nodded and pulled off his scarf and opened his coat, to reveal a black t-shirt, which was so worn, it hung loosely on Sherlock's narrow frame and dipped low on his neck. Sherlock had lost weight in his absence, which for someone as emaciated as Sherlock had been, was worrying. Sherlock threw the jacket on the chair beside the window and kicked off his shoes and John noted the absence of socks. Where had Sherlock been hiding? John didn't want to pry. Sherlock reached for the fly of the jeans and John averted his gaze and raised his head to look at Sherlock's face once more. The strain of his time away etched in the new lines around his eyes. As he bent to pick up the discarded jeans, John saw the burn. A vicious, angry welt along the right side of Sherlock's neck and collar bone. Sherlock looked up at John's gasp.

"What happened?" he asked, his medical instincts kicking in as he took Sherlock's hand and pulled him to sit on the bed so he could get a closer look.

"Ah, yes. A rather unfortunate incident with a man called Sebastian Moran," Sherlock answered, wincing as John's hands explored the burn. "I had a gun, he had a can of deodorant and a lighter. He got creative. It's fine."

"It most certainly is not fine." John tentatively began removing the fluff from Sherlock's scarf from the seeping edges of the wound. "When did it happen?"

"The day before I came back." Sherlock answered, trying to prevent his face contorting in pain at John's ministrations.

"And you haven't had it seen to?"Sherlock shook his head and John bit back a sigh. "You need to come into the bathroom. I need to wash this. My medical bag is at home, but I'll have to treat this properly tomorrow if you're to have any hope of not being scarred permanently." Sherlock came willingly, with an unusual smirk on his face. John chose not to question it.

"Okay Doctor," was all he said, propping himself on the edge of the bath to allow John to clean the burn with hot water from the tap. It hurt like hell, but there was something reassuring about John taking care of him once more that made the pain somehow worth it. John fretted for another ten minutes or so before covering the burn with tissue, bemoaning the lack of proper bandages. Sherlock told him it was fine and yawned, hoping that John would insist on bed.

He did. "You look like you've not slept in weeks and God knows, I feel like I haven't. Bedtime." John buried back under the covers. In mere moments, Sherlock had turned off the ceiling light and was slipping in next to him.

“Night John,” he said quietly, reaching over to squeeze John's hand softly.

“Night Sherlock,” John replied, switching off the bedside lamp and squeezing back with his other hand.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is dedicated to the wonderful Jessica. (jupitereyed.tumblr.com) who provided the inspiration for this story. This is my first time publishing anything I've written. Criticism (and praise you sweet thing!) is more than welcome as well as any suggestions for improvement! :)
> 
> I'll be avoiding posting notes here in future as I hope that the story will speak for itself, but if you have any questions that you'd like answered feel free to head over to vivienneonly.tumblr.com where I will get back to you as soon as humanly possible.
> 
> Much love,  
> Viv  
> x


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